I Set The Book Aside For Tomorrow, Proud
by ALostWinchester
Summary: Re-written scene from Chapter XVIII; set in the kitchen at Wuthering Heights where Young Catherine and Hareton Earnshaw speak for the first time since an argument between them ended with Hareton throwing all of his books into a fire. Written from Hareton's perspective, ever 'misspelling' is intentional. This was completed for a university essay assignment.


I'm confined indoors. Wounded myself while I's hunting and lost so much blood, I must make it up again. I'm not happy about it: it's wearying, and bores even my bones. I sit by the fire, smoke a pipe, and think about the freedom of the grounds and the moors while Joseph complains at being the only person working at the Heights, even though his favourite book says each of us 've to be grateful for our lot. Smoking a pipe's the only thing I 've to occupy my hands, unless Catherine turns her attentions t' me. She tries to provoke me, but since her words made me so angry that I threw the books I's trying to read into the fire, I haven't had t' stomach to speak to her. She goes on talking to me though, or talking about me to whoever's near. My hands don't need the pipe t' occupy them when she speaks because I've to ball them up so hard t' keep from striking her.

She wants to antagonise me today. I turn my eyes away as she's settling on the hearthstone. My eyes fall on the fire and the memory of burning books comes back t' me. The books are gone, my efforts t' have a friend in Catherine are done and I won't be caught hearing her as she says t' me,

"I've found out, Hareton, that I want - that I'm glad - that I should like you to be my cousin, now, if you had not grown so cross to me and so rough."

How dare she say so? I'd been company enough when I showed her the Crags and in the same day, she was laughing at me with that pitiful Linton. I knew they talked about books and I wanted t' be able t' speak t' her just as well as he could. I was foolish. She mocked me for my effort! She said she never wanted t' hear me read from a book again - that I spoiled the words. I don't say anything t' her now, so she has nothing t' mock me with.

"Hareton, Hareton, Hareton! do you hear?" she asks, moving closer t' me.

"Get off wi' ye!" I say, ready t' push her.

"Let me take the pipe," she starts but it's in her talons and I watch her snap it in half and throw it int' the fire! Spoiled selfish witch! I quickly imagine several things, all of them bloody and satisfying - throwing Catherine int' the fire, striking her mouth so hard it won't move, kicking her back and back and back - and instead I clench my fists. If I move against her now, then there's less peace from her for me later. I stare at her hard as I think through all of this while I pick up another pipe, I will not give in to her need for attention. She lifts her hand again t' this pipe, speaking but I don't care what she has t' say, and I demand,

"Will you go t' the devil! and let me be!"

"No, I won't, I can't tell what to do to make you talk to me, and you are determined not to understand. When I call you stupid, I don't mean anything - I don't mean that I despise you. Come, you shall take notice of me, Hareton - you are my cousin and you will own me."

I nearly break the pipe, does she hear herself? Every word that worms out her little mouth contradicts another! How can she forget my efforts towards her favour! _She_ disowned _me_ and so be it. I won't fall for her tricks! so I promise her,

"I shall have naught t' do wi' you, and your mucky pride, and your damned, mocking tricks! I'll go t' hell, body and soul, before I look sideways after you again! Side out of t' gait, now; this minute!"

She pauses but leaves me. Pipe still in my palm, I look t' the fire, shaking and trembling with weakness and anger. I listen to Catherine's movements t' be sure she keeps away from me. I listen t' her crying, humming and muttering. Once, I'd have wanted t' console her, and provide comfort inside Wuthering Heights, which's always been a place for men, at least while I've known it. I once felt sorry for Catherine, but I see this is what she deserves.

"You should be friends with your cousin, Mr Hareton, since she repents of her sauciness!" Ellen Dean preaches, so similarly t' Joseph. She might not speak from the Bible, but always has some lesson to give, like Joseph, "It would do you a great deal of good - it would make you another man, to have her for a companion."

"A companion?" I repeat disbelievingly, "when she hates me and does not think me fit t' wipe her shoon! Nay, if it make me a king, I'd not be scorned for seeking her good will anymore."

"It is not I who hate you," Catherine says, weeping, "it is you who hate me! You hate me as much as Mr Heathcliff does, and more."

Joseph often says it's damnable to look for attention for the things we do for another person. I agree, and I've kept Catherine out of Heathcliff's way as best I can even though she doesn't deserve it because I _don't_ hate her! When she misbehaves, I remind myself not t' let her know what I do for her, but I'm not looking for her favour so I'll tell her what she owes me!

"You're a damned liar!" I shout, "Why have I made him angry, by taking your part then, a hundred times? And that, when you sneered at, and despised me, and," I want to say more but her face - I've never seen this expression before, "- Go on plaguing me, and I'll step in yonder, and say you worried me out of the kitchen!"

Both women stare at me - I feel it on my skin. I start believing we're all done talking until,

"I didn't know you took my part," Catherine says, "and I was miserable and bitter at everybody; but, now I thank you, and beg you to forgive me, what can I do besides?"

Her hand hovers before me. A handshake isn't enough to fix what she's done. I clench my fists, look t' the fire, and try not t' break her hand.

She kisses me on the cheek. I don't realise until she's on her way to the window. I suddenly lose track of what's been happening and I think, her lips were cold on my warm cheek. How stupid she's been for staying so far from the fire just t' stay away from me. If she has any sense she would be quiet and sit still enough not to annoy me and be warm. It is stupid of her to freeze at the window, and to cry, and damned stupid to test my anger for so damned long.

Suddenly, Ellen Dean drops a parcel on my knee. I recognise the shape and weight of a book. My throat tightens with longing to be good enough at reading to read it, but I can't be good enough - _she_ says so. She made sure I wouldn't read and I made sure she'd never mock me again for reading, by burning my books. When those pages were ash, I felt like I might cry for the first time since I was a boy, but I am no longer a boy, and men don't cry. The weight of it is a comfort, and I stare at it, tempted to throw it into the fire to break Catherine's heart, and worried I might never hold another book again. I want to imagine, again, that I can read. I want to make sense of the lines and loops and little pictures. I want it so badly, that without my permission, my hands open the parcel and casts the wrapping aside.

I barely notice Catherine creep over and sit carefully next t' me.

"Say you'll forgive me Hareton, do!" she begs, "You can make me so happy, by speaking the little word."

I mutter some things, mostly that she's a witch.

"And you'll be my friend?"

Friend? More burning books, scornful words and temptation to strike a feeble woman with my hands? I try t' change her mind from this idea, and say,

"Nay! you'll be ashamed of me every day of your life and the more, the more you know me, I cannot bide it."

"So you wont be my friend?" she says, yet she smiles sweetly, leaning closer to me. I can see every move she makes out of the corner of my vision and she torments me. I close my eyes against her. I can still feel the book in my hands. I still want to read. I still want t' talk to her. It makes naught of sense but I do.

I open my eyes to the pages. I've missed paper in my hands, and recognise some of the words. She waits until I've gone through half a page alone. Catherine's careful when she corrects me. Her hand slips over my shoulder as she leans closer t' point to a word far from her. I hesitate. She says the words over, points, and even squeezes my shoulder gently as if that will make me carry on, but it's not the words that have stopped me. Her hand is light and gentle. Her arm resting on my back is comforting.

She keeps wanting me to read on, so I give in, and say the words. Distracted by her closeness, I make more mistakes for a while longer, but her hand only ever moves to point at the book and then returns to where it rested. I get used to her touch and t' her teaching me.

We don't make it far into the book by the time we have to stop, but she has already promised to sit with me tomorrow. I look at the book and I want try read some more, so I can surprise her with how far I can read on my own when we read again, but Joseph gives me his receipts for Heathcliff. I set the book aside for tomorrow, proud.


End file.
